by Lisa Jackson
“But the others would kill Ware,” she said, realizing that she had no choice but to open the gates and allow Strahan entrance.
“If we let them inside,” the armorer argued, “do ye think he will be spared?”
“Mayhap,” Clare said, though she saw the man’s wisdom. “Yet there’s a chance I’ll be able to reason with my cousin.”
The armorer’s expression turned grim. He spat on the stone floor of the tower. “The chance is slimmer than that of a mouse in a roomful of cats, m’lady. Sir Strahan has gone this far. He’ll not stop with your brother’s life.”
The words rang true, and yet she had to try. “If there is a way,” she said to the man, “to sneak one of the servants out, send him to the abbot of the monastery. Tell him that Abergwynn has fallen and he must get word to Daffyd of Wenlock.”
“I will—”
“But whoever leaves must be careful! Choose someone Strahan would not suspect … mayhap one of the children who work in the stables.” The plan was flawed; some of the children lied so often that even their mothers did not believe them. But Clare had no other choice.
“I’ll do it, m’lady.”
“Clare!” Strahan’s voice boomed again.
“Let him go!” she yelled, and Strahan moved quickly, slicing Cadell’s ear. “No!”
Blood spurted. Cadell’s agonized scream rang through the castle.
“No! For the love of God, no!” Glyn screamed at Strahan. She turned wide, terror-filled eyes upon Clare and clutched at Clare’s sleeve with desperate fingers. “Please, please let them in,” Glyn begged. Her face was the color of snow, her lips without blood. “I beg of you, please don’t let Strahan kill my brother bit by bit.”
“Clare?” Strahan’s voice boomed. “Next time ’twill be his whole ear, and I won’t stop there.”
Closing her eyes, Clare made the sign of the cross and stiffened her spine. “Hold on, Strahan,” she yelled hoarsely. “You may enter.” She signaled the guard at the gate, and the chains of the portcullis began to rumble and clank. Clare’s sad eyes met Glyn’s frightened gaze. “You’d best go pray,” she said, “because we will need all of God’s help.”
“But Garrick will be back soon,” Glyn whispered, ever hopeful.
“Aye, that he will,” Clare whispered, knowing that Garrick was riding to meet his death. He had to be warned … but how? Holy Father, please deliver us!
She watched in silent horror as Ware was prodded upon his steed and Cadell, bleeding from the earlobe, was pushed onto a waiting horse. Strahan’s band of dirty soldiers began moving forward, holding the reins to Ware and Cadell’s horses and leading them like prisoners of war inside the thick walls of Abergwynn.
Please God, warn Garrick, she silently prayed, then handed a small knife to Glyn.
”I don’t want—”
Clare pressed the knife into Glyn’s palm. “You may need it.”
“Strahan would not harm me—”
Clare slapped her quickly. Her palm smacked hard against Glyn’s face. “You saw what Strahan did to your brother. Do you doubt that he would have killed him?”
“Nay, but—”
“What of his soldiers? Do you not think they will be anxious to lie with a woman? Mayhap a lady?”
Tears starred Glyn’s eyes. She rubbed the side of her face. Her voice trembled piteously. “But they would not dare approach me—”
“There will be no asking,” Clare told her. “They will just take.”
“But not me! Surely not me. I am a virgin and—”
Clare’s fingers curled over Glyn’s hand, forcing her to hold on the small weapon. “I know. But you will not be spared. The knife gives you a choice. If you decide to endure what the soldiers do to you, then you will not need it. That might be best: suffer the humiliation and spare your life.”
“Oh, dear God in heaven—”
“But if you can’t lie with them … well, you could easily press the blade into the heart of a naked man.”
“I couldn’t kill—”
“You’ll be surprised at what you can endure and what you will do,” Clare replied, her own eyes dark, as if with painful memories. “But if the pain is too great, the humiliation too much for you to bear, the knife will offer you a way to end it all for yourself as well.”
“’Tis a sin—”
Clare closed her eyes as the first horse entered the outer bailey. “I know, but take the knife, Glyn.”
Glyn gulped, but as Clare removed her hand, Glyn’s fingers stayed wrapped around the knife’s carved hilt.
Chapter Twenty Two
“I’ll not die a prisoner to the likes of Strahan of Hazelwood,” Cadell sneered. His ear was crusted with blood and his body bruised as he lay in his new prison in the lowest level of Abergwynn. Dug deep into the earth, these rooms, barred and smelling of dampness, were seldom used. The hay on the floor was filthy and rotting. No one had set foot in here for years, except when the keep was being searched for Logan.
“How are we to break free?” Ware asked. He, too, wanted to escape, though he’d been told by Strahan that should he find a way to flee from the castle walls, the other hostages would pay. Clare and Glyn would surely come to no good.
“I am not afraid to die,” Cadell whispered.
“Then you are foolish. For Strahan will make your death painful.”
“I think not.” Cadell offered a smile that was barely visible in the half-light. He glanced at the one small barred window high over their heads where daylight dared to filter in and pierce the darkness. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said in a voice so low it could barely be heard.
“What is that?’ Ware was in no mood for Cadell’s childish fantasies. He, too, was working on a plan of escape but as yet had come up with naught.
“Morgana is not the only grandchild of Enit who can see the future.”
Ware sighed. “I do not believe even she can.”
“Then you’re the fool, my friend. For I have seen her powers. But I knew not that I, too, was blessed with the gift of sight.”
Ware snorted. He remembered Cadell’s last vision — the voices that had led them into Strahan’s trap. “Why have you not told me this before?”
“Because I hardly believed it myself. My visions are not so bright as hers. I had none until this winter past when my voice began to ring with strange notes and hair appeared on new parts of my body.”
“So your ‘gift’ came to you as you became a man?”
Cadell’s eyes shifted to Ware’s, and they seemed to hold an eerie light. “Mayhap it was always there, but as a lad I was unaware of it.” His expression was troubled. “I’ve heard no voices — no wind talking to me.”
“Until today,” Ware reminded him.
“As I said, my sight into the future is much weaker than Morgana’s gift, and I have not been able to use it to my advantage.” He rubbed a hand against the soft down on his dirty jaw. “But in time, I think, these visions of things to come will serve me well.”
“If you live long enough.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.” Cadell scrambled over to the side of the cell where Ware was slumped against the earthen wall. “I have seen my own future, Ware, and I will not die — at least not by Strahan’s hand. I will escape this dungeon, and I will prevail.”
The boy was in one of his moods again. Letting his imagination run wild. He had no more sight of the future than did Ware.
Cadell’s face crumpled when he realized that Ware didn’t believe him. Glancing over his shoulder, as if he suspected unseen eyes in the darkness of the prison, he whispered. “Look what I found.” He held up a small bone. “Left over from the last meal of some prisoner, I’ll wager. Whoever was in charge of cleaning this place missed this.”
“’Tis only a bone.”
“Nay, Ware,” Cadell said with a knowing smile. “’Tis a knife, sure and true. Look.” He ran his thumb along the
curved edge of the bone. “Sharp enough, if rammed into a man’s eye, to wound him.”
“You are going to attack the guard?” Ware asked, but his heart was beating faster. It just might work.
“Aye. You call him over. Complain of an injury or something. Make him take his eyes off me. That shouldn’t be too difficult, for he thinks I am but a boy, nothing serious to worry about. I will jump him, and as I stab him, you grab his sword.”
“What if there are two guards?”
“Then take the man in front of you, and I’ll handle the second.” Their gazes met in the darkness. “’Tis our only chance,” Cadell whispered, and Ware knew the lad was right. Even though Strahan had promised not to hurt Clare and Glyn if Ware and Cadell remained prisoners, Strahan could not be trusted. Even now the women might be suffering torture or rape. Garrick’s return wouldn’t help, for he was walking into a trap — a trap Ware himself had helped to set.
They were half a day’s ride from Abergwynn when Morgana pulled up short. The air around her stirred, then became still. Heart in her throat she waited for the vision she knew would appear.
“Hey! What’s this?” Sir Randolph queried.
“Get on, Lady Morgana,” another knight suggested.
But Morgana held Luck’s reins tight and hardly dared to breathe. The hills and forest had disappeared, and again she saw the boy child crying, his face streaked with mud, his eyes round with fear. There was darkness around him and damp fog.
Without regard for the men, she slid from the saddle.
Garrick ordered the company to stop. Several men grumbled, for they were anxious to be home, but they pulled up obediently and Garrick told them to rest the horses and to eat.
“You see something,” he said approaching her.
“Aye, ’tis Logan.”
Garrick’s throat tightened, and his lips thinned. “Alive?”
“Aye, but frightened and bound.”
“I’ll kill whoever did this.” He grabbed her arm. “Come with me,” he ordered, then commanded one of his men to look after his horse. Wolf snarled as Morgana half ran to keep up with Garrick’s long, determined strides as he set off on an overgrown path through the forest. “I’m tired of your visions, for they are unclear. They give me hope, but no true way of finding my boy. Now, sit there” —he pointed to the stump of a fallen pine tree and shoved her in that direction— “and tell me everything about my son first and then about Abergwynn. We’ll wait here all day and night if need be.” He stood, arms crossed, and watched her. Wolf, sensing Garrick’s anger, growled and paced restlessly in the brush.
Morgana well understood Garrick’s frustration. “The vision I have of Logan is unclear. As I said, he is being held prisoner.”
“I know that. Where? By whom?”
Closing her eyes, Morgana called on her memory. “The chamber is dark and damp. Fog enshrouds him. He is tied and oftimes alone. This scares him more than being with his captors.” Her forehead wrinkled as she pulled hard on her memory. “There is the smell of salt — brine — and the dull roar of the sea echoes through the chamber. He must be near the ocean, and he’s cold, though his captors have given him a fur coverlet … of rabbit and trimmed with ermine. He calls for you, Garrick.” Opening her eyes, she found Garrick’s face as pale as a new moon.
“How did you know the blanket was missing?” he demanded, his muscles rigid. “’Twas Logan’s favorite.”
“I knew not.”
“You think Strahan took my boy.” He shook his head. “Then why has he not held Logan for ransom?” He shoved his hair from his eyes, and his strong hand trembled. “What else do you see — about the castle and our brothers?”
She closed her eyes again and wound her fingers in the dirty folds of her tunic. She called up Ware’s face from memory, but had no clear picture of him. The castle, too, eluded her, though she smelled smoke, and upon thinking of Cadell, her heart nearly stopped. His face was there before her, but he was wearing the mask of death.
“God help him,” she whispered, opening her eyes. “Cadell faces death,” she said, her throat thick, her eyes brimming with tears. “’Tis my fault.”
“Nay, Morgana.” Garrick was suddenly beside her, holding her and kissing her temple. “Cadell is at Abergwynn because I came for you and your father bargained with his children’s upbringing. Do not blame yourself.”
“But we must save him. And Logan.”
“Is there naught you can do? he asked. “Can you not chant a spell for their protection?”
“You believe in my spells?” she asked in wonder.
He shook his head. “No, but I believe in trying anything.” He motioned to the ground. “Do whatever you must to keep my boy and your brother safe.”
“First we pray.” Morgana knelt and prayed for the safety of her family and Garrick’s. From the corner of her eye, she saw Garrick lay down his sword and bow his head, and she silently asked God to forgive him his arrogance. Once the prayer was finished, she used a stick to draw a circle in the earth, then sketched four crescents that overlapped in the middle of the full circle as they pointed outward, for the protection of Logan, Cadell, Clare, Glyn, and Ware.
“This is it?” Garrick asked, staring down at her rune. “Looks like a horse trampled the earth here.”
“’Tis the best I can do,” she said, her shoulders stiffening in pride.
His jaw worked. “Then it will have to do.”
She stood, dusting her hands, and he was taken again with her beauty. Despite all the fear he faced, the desperation to find his son, he still noted the soft angles of her face, the black waves of her hair, the pride in the small point of her chin. Though he doubted her powers, she did give him hope, not only for Logan’s safety but for his own future as well, for he knew now as he stared down at her that he could not go on living without her.
“Come, Morgana,” he said, drawing her into the circle of his arms. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and ignored the hardness growing in his loins. He had no time for lying with her. Not yet. Not until Logan was found. “’Tis time we went to Abergwynn. If, as you say, Strahan has taken my boy as well as my lands, then he must answer for his deeds.”
Heavy footsteps lumbered down the stairway, and the guard, a thickset man with foul breath and a pockmarked face, opened the door. His name was Brodie, and he was known for his love of bawdy stories and gossip. Along with a burning torch, he carried a pitcher of water, an empty pail, and a trencher of old bread.
“Drink from the pitcher and piss in the pail,” Brodie ordered, after unlocking the door and entering the dungeon. He was a huge man, twice the size of Cadell, and he stank of stale mead and garlic as he glowered down at the two boys. “So ye got yerself in a pile of trouble, didn’t ye, Lord Ware? Ha, that brother of yours is a fool. If ye had a brain in that head of yers, ye would’ve taken up with Strahan. Ye’d be in a far better place than this.” He set the torch into a rusted bracket on the wall.
“Would I?” Ware threw back at the man. He affected a thoughtful pose. “Suppose I told Strahan that I’d changed my mind?”
“He wouldn’t believe you. Just as I don’t.” Brodie dropped the empty pail, and it rolled and clanged against the wall. “You’d never plot against your own brother.”
“I wouldn’t want to, but I’m a practical man.”
The guard snorted. “Man?” He let out a loud belly laugh. “Ye call yerself a man? Ye be but a boy yet. Ye probably haven’t even had yer first maid.”
Ware’s eyes glimmered. “You’d be surprised, Sir Brodie. Many a maids has lifted her skirts for me.”
“Bah! The devil you say! Y’re but a lad.”
“The women think not,” Ware lied, seeing the older man lean forward with skeptical interest. “Not only serving wenches but maids in the village and ladies as well.”
“Yer talkin’ too big for yer age,” Brodie scoffed, but his eyes reflected curiosity in the torchlight, and he gr
inned, exposing yellowed and broken teeth.
“Big? Aye, I’m big,” Ware boasted, touching his groin proudly as, behind the large man, he saw Cadell rise silently to his feet. “I’ve had no complaints … not even from Lady Fiona.”
Brodie’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth gaped. “Fiona? Nelson Rowley’s niece? The beauty of Castle Pennick? The devil ye say—”
Cadell suddenly leapt upon the big man’s back and ground the bit of bone into his eye. Blood spurted, and Brodie fell screaming to one knee.
“You bloody little bastard, I’ll cut yer heart out!” Brodie roared, reaching for his knife.
Ware snatched the torch from the wall and set flame to the big man’s tunic. Furious and afraid, blood dripping from his ruined eye, Cadell still clinging to his back, Brodie shrieked and screamed. He fell to the floor and rolled in the hay. The rushes caught fire. Crackling flames burst all around. Thick smoke roiled upward.
“Get off him, you fool!” Ware yelled as Cadell jabbed his bit of bone into the guard’s neck. Brodie screamed some more, fire licking at his limbs as Ware grabbed his sword and ran him through.
“Come on!” Ware grabbed the pitcher and flung the water on the growing fire. Then, clutching the younger man’s shirt, he pulled Cadell toward the stairway.
But Cadell wasn’t quite through. He reached through the blaze and pried Brodie’s dead fingers from his knife. Once armed, he followed Ware up the stairs and out the back entrance to the inner bailey. Smoke drifted upward, and one of the other guards started shouting.
“Hey, you!” a guard called.
“Blood of Christ, there’s smoke!” a woman screamed.
“Fire!” the laundress yelled.
“Fire!” the armorer joined in, and soon everyone in the inner bailey was screaming. People ran to the castle, to the pond, to the well, with the single purpose of dousing the blaze.
“Fire!”
“Where?”
“There — my God, it’s the castle! In the basement — the prison! For the love of Mary, look at the smoke!”